Spiritus
by LimpBiskit
Summary: Lucky #7 I hope.


Title: _Spiratus_  
Author: LimpBiskit  
Fandom: Sherlock BBC  
Pairing: Sherlock/John  
Rating: PG  
Warnings: Slash. Randomness.

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The night was warm, sounds of life absent from the wide-open windows as he lay facing away from the tawdry gleam of starlight.

How different he was, on this night and so many, many others, alone in his thoughts but never so in presence or form, there was a creature of mingled light and darkness beside him even as the rest of the world eschewed to remain outside their homes in mortal fear of the things that haunted the twilight-

And he had always been drawn to the darkened hours.

Nightfall shrouded him, let him pass unseen into the throngs of what must have been his own kind, kindred and yet unkind _freak we all hated him the one that put it there_ but it was all for the greater good of his knowledge, the drive to **see** and **understand** it all-

The daylight, it showed him the illusions that lesser men used to placate their inner workings, the silverlined deceptions that they spread over themselves like blankets against the world as it would always be..

How was it, that the man he had been for all his life could be lain low by a thing not of the mind, but a reaction of one physicality to another? There had never been such a space within him that allowed for the feeling of hopefulness to abide, there had always been the truth _who what where when how why_ and nothing more-

But still he loved.

It was all so simple, something he should have known and understood, but he found himself at a loss for the first time _that very first time he caught those eyes and saw something kindred beloved and closer to heaven than he could ever be_ in all his life, and suddenly he wondered if he had been so deeply sunken into Hell's own work that he had forgotten to rise up from that dark place for breath..

Breath.

God, he had taken the small act of drawing air in, sending it out for granted, a foregone conclusion and now it was a thing so dear _toxified blood, everything a blur in the water oh please which way was up there's no light no air no **John**_ but never again. His breath, the long sleep-heavy breaths against his nape in the dark, they were equally precious things now, when he knew, _truly knew_ what it was to be breathless and afraid-

But he was no stranger to difficulty in breathing, not when that same figure beside him made a regular habit of taking his breath and logic away with no more than a slow glance or the stroke of a hand, and that never frightened him because he wanted it _don't stop yet never enough please let this go on and on until you have all there is_ so badly, had wanted it since the beginning even if no one had ever known..

Now there was no concealing it, no shield heavy enough to cover the edges of his desperate need for _this_ man, with his warm affection so plain on his face whenever their eyes met.. And he found that it didn't matter, for once he could care less what the rest of the world did as long as there was more to have, more kisses, more sweetness _and it was so painfully sweet, how his very soul pushed against the barrier of his skin when they were soclosetogether as if it would tear him to pieces and drape itself around the one who made life a thing to crave_ and more time to simply be who and what they were-

He could never remember feeling like that, like nothing else would satisfy him enough to matter, and he was almost frightened to compare it to the life he'd had _before John, when it was all take and take and take and the drugs took him to the end of everything so **alive** but so very dead and he hated how much he loved being so far away_ when it was only he and himself, he didn't want that life to touch this one because really, how does one compare a single instant of pleasure to another?

And he still had no reason.

Why was it now, why in this place, why this perfectly imperfect man and how would the man himself reply, if he knew the meandering process taken by his lover as he slept, body at rest but mind coursing along too quickly for proper speech to encompass it because it never really stopped _how long was it, before he could obey a lover's command and let go, just be, let me do this for you for us because you never knew I didn't know I needed it_ at all.

And now there was life and movement behind him, the breaths he coveted and cherished pressed nearer the nape of his neck than before because the one who loved him enough to love him _always_ knew when there needed to be a stopping block, lest he fly to pieces under his own frenetic momentum. It was more than being loved or loving, something he had no words for but _yes_ and _please_ and _more,_ but even with no definition it was better, so much better than the nothing he would have had if it hadn't been for some kindness of Fate or maybe it was something even larger than that, and it didn't matter when he was so achingly **grateful**..

He couldn't see the man's eyes, couldn't see the smile that he felt against his skin, but knowing they were there was almost enough, if he tried he might be able to lie still and simply be held-

Of course that was a lie.

He needed to shift, to turn into that proferred body and bask in it the way certain animals bask in sunlight for no reason at all but to do it, the want of it was so very needful and strong _like his hands, arms, O dear God his heart all mine for me nothing stronger than a promise he makes_ that it neared pain when resisted too long, but seldom was there anything like pain because when had he ever fought against the pull **he** engendered?

How ridiculous that would be, when the very essence of this was like the air, a thing needed to survive even when unacknowledged.

And he knew.

Breathed in.

Held so long that his lungs burned and his blood sang with more than desire for aether with which to nourish body and mind-

Exhaled.

And still there was so much more, so much to take in and have because _what else matters when the one who loves your life breathes you in and back again and you can taste his living in the aftermath how precious and it tasted of forever_ the wellspring never runs dry, not when the one you love drinks from the fount of all that is-

It was all one instant, his past, this present, _their_ future..

He wondered if he looked as half-mad as he felt in this now, eyes bright with the things he could never have set to anything but the rhythm of their pulse-

But the other's eyes reflected that madness, quickened and kaleidoscoped it into infintismal fragments of just how close to _life_ they were when neither one had the time for speech _who needed such a thing when there was **everything** together in the air between them_ it was less than soul and more than being when fingers met and twined in this sacred darkness..

And all that remained was to breathe.

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Hooray. The _other_ style has yet to perish. Comments are enduring love. 


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